


years and years away

by addandsubtract



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Breaking Up & Making Up, Future Fic, M/M, Retirement, Summer Vibes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-08 09:12:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17978510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addandsubtract/pseuds/addandsubtract
Summary: Connor’s never been to the cabin before.





	years and years away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [capnseriouslycanadian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/capnseriouslycanadian/gifts).



> hello friend! i know that this isn't one of your specific prompts but i hope it serves anyway! thank you for giving me the opportunity to write something soft and exploratory! ♥

Connor’s never been to the cabin before. Dylan’s family had one back when they were kids, and Connor went with them a few times — fresh out of Erie, still clinging to the closeness the hockey season brought. This cabin, from what Connor understands, was one of the first things Dylan bought with his free agency money.

The drive up is good, if slow. There’s not much traffic, but the road is only two lanes, and Connor is stuck behind a horse trailer for the long stretch through the mountains. It’s fine — he has music on the stereo, and he doesn’t have anywhere else to be.

Dylan’s been up there for a couple weeks already, from his email. The Oilers had wanted Connor to stay behind, finish up the press before he left for good. Assuming it really is for good — he’s said so, but they want him back for another year and he’s having trouble being firm in declining. There’s a difference between wanting more and wanting to be done, but Dylan said, all those years ago, that Connor couldn’t balance hockey with his personal life and Connor hasn’t been able to prove him wrong. 

The intervening days have given Connor some space to think about whether this is actually a good idea — going up to the lake, spending time with Dylan, presumably alone. For most of it, at least. He hasn’t managed to talk himself out of it.

After a few hours spent driving slow and trying to pretend he isn’t dawdling, he gets to the turnoff, exiting off of the narrow highway and onto the ever narrower street leading down to the lake. Dylan’s house is on the opposite side, shore front, but to get there he has to take the entry road and drive all the way around, past each house between here and there. They’re all huge, it feels like. Connor realizes he’s been imagining that Dylan’s cabin will look like the one from their childhood, but every house on this stretch is at least twice as large as that.

He has the money for that, at least. Connor can’t fault him for it.

Through the gaps in the houses, Connor can see down to the lake — deep and dark blue, dotted with boats and docks, curving to the left where it presses up against the mountains. He almost misses the driveway down to Dylan’s just from looking, and has to take the turn slightly too fast. He skids to a stop next to Dylan’s sensible Toyota and spends several minutes convincing himself to get out of the car.

It isn’t as if they never see each other. They do — across a room, at big gatherings of their mutual friends in the GTA, at weddings and retirement parties and cup parties. Connor doesn’t think he’s been alone in a room with Dylan since he signed with the Avs ten years ago. Certainly not since he retired two seasons ago.

They always said they’d do this — take a trip to the lake when they were both retired and could eat whenever they wanted, stay up late, fish until they were sunburned and crispy. They hadn’t known then where life would lead them, but Connor still said yes to the invite.

And Dylan, for some reason, invited him to begin with.

Finally, he gets out of the car, grabs his duffle from the back seat, and heads up to knock.

Dylan answers. He looks good, tanned brown all over, his hair too long and curling around his ears. He smiles. “I thought maybe you’d just camp on the driveway.”

“My back’s not as good as all that anymore,” Connor says. He follows Dylan inside, lets the duffle slip off his shoulder and onto the floor. He extends his hand for a shake, and Dylan rolls his eyes, tugging him in for a hug.

“It’s good to see you,” Dylan says, pulling away. “There’s, uh. A couple of guest rooms — upstairs or no?”

“Ground floor is probably better,” Connor says. He’s still got some post-playoff aches and pains, a few exercises he’s supposed to do daily until his knee is closer to one hundred percent.

“Good choice. The one on the left has a door out to the porch.”

He seems so at ease, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his ragged shorts. It makes Connor ache a little.

“Swimming is still on the list,” Connor says.

“You’ll have to fill me in later,” Dylan says. “C’mon, I’ll give you a tour.”

The house opens up into an enormous living room and dining area, with huge high ceilings. Connor stops for a moment to look up, and then out across the water. It’s quite a view.

“You could definitely house all of Ryan’s kids here, huh?” he says.

“Yeah, and I have,” Dylan says. “I try to keep them for a couple of days so Ryan and Sydney can have a weekend off, y’know, couples’ trip. Brandon is old enough now that he can help me with the littler ones.”

“Look at you,” Connor says. He shakes his head. “All grown up and responsible.”

Dylan shrugs, still looking relaxed and easy about it. Connor can’t tell if it’s real or if Connor is out of practice at being able to tell. “It had to happen sometime.”

They walk down the hall, shoulders brushing, and Dylan pushes into the first room on the left — there are two others, one on the right and one at the end of the hall, though who knows if they’re both bedrooms. 

Dylan ushers Connor inside, says, “There’s the bed, obviously, and there’s an attached bathroom to the right. All the bedrooms have their own bathrooms, so don’t worry about sharing.”

The window above the bed looks out onto the lake, and the glass doors on the left side of the room lead out onto the deck, just like Dylan mentioned. It feels easier to let Dylan narrate his tour and ease into the rest of the visit. Connor isn’t even entirely sure how long Dylan is planning on having him stay — Connor hadn’t asked.

Upstairs, there are three more bedrooms, one the master, and a den. There’s also a small staircase up to the third floor, which is open plan, set up with chairs and rugs and bordered in book cases.

“Have you actually read any of those books?” Connor asks. “Or was that all your decorator?”

“I think I’ve read five or six of them,” Dylan says, rueful. “The ones about physical therapy, since I was pretty serious about coming back from that back surgery I had a couple years back.”

“Oh yeah, that looked gnarly,” Connor says, wincing. Dylan had gotten tripped up skating toward the goal and gone down hard, almost sandwiched in half by the goal post. Obviously the goal had come off its moorings, but that hadn’t kept Dylan from sitting out the last two playoffs games and then heading straight under the knife after exit interviews.

They each have their fair share of scars.

“I usually fill this floor with toys and games when the kids are here. It doubles pretty well as a play area, and there’s nothing super expensive up here. Nice view, too.”

As with the rest of the house, all the windows are huge, letting in a ton of light, and looking out over the trees and water.

“It’s a nice place, Stromer,” Connor says. “You should be proud.”

“Thanks,” Dylan says, with a cheeky grin. “How’s steaks for dinner, by the way? I was gonna grill.”

“Sounds perfect,” Connor says. It’s weird how not weird things have felt so far. As much as Connor would love to kiss Dylan, as much as Connor has always wanted to do that, if things can be easy for them, he’ll take it.

Dylan leaves him to unpack — Connor haphazardly sticking his t-shirts and shorts into the dresser, hanging up his one good suit, and setting his toothbrush and face wash on the counter in the bathroom. It’s already stocked with shampoo, and Connor surreptitiously smells it, but it’s different than whatever Dylan uses. Connor can’t help but be grateful for that.

Afterward, he heads out into the living room. The sun is starting to set over the water, and Dylan is on the deck, fiddling with the grill. Connor watches him for a long moment. He’s fit, at ease with his body. Maybe he’ll be able to tell Connor what to do with himself now that he’s officially retired. Connor has spent years thinking about it, but now he’s close to 40 and he still has no idea. There wasn’t ever anything else besides hockey, and he has enough money that if he never wants to work again he doesn't have to. He just has to keep from getting bored.

He doesn’t want to work in hockey, he doesn’t think — the idea of coaching or sitting in a front office somewhere, trying to make trades and contracts, sounds awful. He could play another year, keep putting it off, but that won’t change anything.

Dylan comes inside, having left the meat on the grill, and starts toward the attached kitchen. Probably getting vegetables, or sauce. Plates.

“How did you know you were done?” Connor asks. It’s not a safe topic, exactly, but it’s not unsafe either, not the way that talking about how they were in Erie and the two years after might be.

Dylan turns to look at him, squinting, and then lifts one shoulder. “It hurt more to play then it hurt not to,” he says. “But — I wasn’t good enough by the end. You know how it is. I could’ve hung around somewhere, playing twenty games, or I could have gone to Europe, maybe, but it seemed kind of embarrassing. I won a cup, I played a bunch of good years. And I wasn’t ever Connor McDavid, so reputation alone wasn’t gonna do it.”

His mouth twists in that way Connor recognizes so well, where the jealousy is hidden behind the knowledge that Connor couldn’t ever be anyone else. Dylan knew what a burden being him was, sometimes, but it hadn’t stopped the jealousy. Just one of those things they both had to live with.

“Yeah,” Connor says. He’s not going to bring up how hard it was. Dylan never cared, and it doesn’t matter anyway. “My doctor says that I could probably push my knee one more year without doing lasting damage, and my agent says the offers are there if I want them, but —” He shrugs.

“You don’t know for sure, then,” Dylan says. It’s not a question, though he has one eyebrow raised.

“I mean, I made it pretty clear I wasn’t planning on re-signing, but they know I could still chicken out. Or I could sign somewhere else. I don’t have a plan, really.”

“Okay,” Dylan says. “Well for now you can open up a couple of beers for us and watch me grill. It can wait.”

Connor steals a whole six pack from the fridge, and finds a bottle opener in one of the drawers in the kitchen. The grill is next to a low table and a few loungers, so Connor puts the beer on the table and takes a seat on one of the loungers. It’s a process getting his knee to bend, and he grunts quietly with the effort, looking up to see Dylan watching him.

“It’s really not bad,” he says. “Just, you know, those postseason aches and pains.”

Dylan reaches over for the bottle opener and snags one of the beers, popping the top open and handing it to Connor before grabbing one for himself. He takes a long drink before he bothers to speaks again.

“I suppose if you needed surgery you’d have gotten it.”

Connor lifts one shoulder. “I’ll probably get surgery at some point. If I do my PT I’ll be able to skate on it well enough to play, which isn’t a sure thing after the surgery, so I’m putting it off until I’m sure.”

“It’ll hurt all the time, though, won’t it?” Dylan asks. He’s turned away to poke at the grill, but it seems more like an excuse not to look at Connor.

“It has the past two seasons,” Connor says. “I’m used to it. It’s not that bad, and the team masseuse helps.”

“Who knows?”

“Everyone, probably. No one on the team asks about it anymore, but the medical staff, obviously, and the front office would need to. I keep them updated. It’s really not a big deal.”

“I don’t know, Davo, I think chronic pain is a big deal.”

“It’s not affecting my play —”

“Yeah, because that’s what I care about,” Dylan says. He sighs. “Food’s ready, c’mon. We can circle back to this.”

Dylan serves the food — steak and asparagus and potatoes soft from the grill — and hands Connor his plate before sitting in the lounger opposite him. They both have to lean over the table to cut their meat, and it feels strangely intimate. Everything tastes great, and Connor says so. Dylan demures, with a smile, and toasts Connor with his beer.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Dylan says, once they’ve finished the six pack and are most of the way through the food.

“I wasn’t either,” Connor says, looking out over the lake. The sun has mostly set, the last rays turning the sky purple over the mountains. “But I couldn’t talk myself out of it, in the end.”

“Hey,” Dylan says, and when Connor looks over, he’s smiling, one side of his mouth lifted. “I’m glad. I wouldn’t have invited you if I wasn’t willing to put up with you.”

“Wow, thanks.”

“No problem,” Dylan says, laughing. “I’m going to go grab us more beer.”

They drink steadily, staying on the dock until the mosquitos start giving Connor a hard time, and then crashing on the couches in the living room. Connor hasn’t gotten drunk since last offseason, and his tolerance is significantly lower than when he was younger, so he flops over onto his back and watches the ceiling slowly spin. He can hear the buzzing of insects as they hit the screens on the open windows, trying to get inside to the light.

“You were right, you know,” he says.

“Right about what.” Dylan isn’t far, just on another couch, but he feels unreachable to Connor, his voice coming from a great distance. That makes it both easier and more difficult to speak.

“That I wasn’t ever going to be able to keep a real relationship alive until I retired.”

“You know I said that to be cruel,” Dylan says. There’s something in his voice that Connor can’t identify, though he thinks if he looked at Dylan he’d know. It feels impossible to move his head that much. He’s stuck in place.

“I know, but you were right anyway.” Mostly, people don’t like sneaking around, and Connor can’t blame them. Hooking up with teammates can only go so far when you’re not willing to put the team at risk. Distance was always a factor, too. Odds all stacked up against Connor, the way things always were when they weren’t to do with playing hockey.

“I’m sorry I said it,” Dylan says. “Maybe things would have been different if I hadn’t said that.”

“Maybe,” Connor says. “Probably not. I’m not mad about it anymore.”

Dylan sighs, but if he says anything else, Connor doesn’t hear it. He wakes up with an extremely dry mouth and a pounding head, the sun streaking in through the huge windows. He groans, turning onto his side to hide his face, and manages to go back to sleep for what could be a few minutes or an hour. Dylan’s sitting up when he opens his eyes again, yawning, his hair flat on one side and fluffing up alarmingly on the other.

“Nice,” Connor says. “Just like old times.”

“Less fucking than old times,” Dylan says. “Unless there’s something I’m not remembering.”

It’s an easy way to take the edge off — both the morning and their past. Connor doesn’t even wince.

“Smart-aleck. Go make me coffee.”

Dylan rolls his eyes, but he goes. Probably because he knows if Connor went he wouldn’t know how to use the fancy coffee machine. Connor’s always been a basic kind of guy.

Connor collects himself, and has managed to sit upright by the time Dylan comes back with two mugs. Connor accepts his gratefully, and Dylan sits next to him.

“What did you have in mind for today?” Connor asks, to head off any awkwardness.

Dylan shrugs. “I usually eat breakfast, then go for a swim. Sometimes I go for a run, or take a walk. We can also go into town, such as it is, if you’re antsy already. On weekends I have the local guys over for a barbecue, but we have a few days to decide about that.”

“Running is out, but I’d love breakfast and a swim. I can cook, since you made dinner.”

“And coffee,” Dylan says, helpfully, slurping at his.

“And coffee.”

It’s still not weird. They’re circling each other, testing the waters, and it feels careful. Connor wasn’t expecting animosity, considering that Dylan asked him here, but Dylan’s not usually a careful guy. It’s flattering.

Connor fries up some eggs and bacon with the leftover asparagus from last night, and sticks slices of the hearty bread on Dylan’s counter into the toaster. Dylan watches him, keeping up a steady stream of chatter — he talks about his parents and his siblings, how Ryan’s summer hockey camp is going, how Matt’s youngest daughter is starting skating lessons in the fall. When he runs out of family, he starts in on their mutual friends — Alex is starting an assistant coaching gig with Sarnia come September, and Lawson is headed back to the Panthers, signed on for one more year.

“And TK is still Flyers’ captain,” Dylan says. “I was sure they were gonna strip him of it, after what he said when they bombed out of the playoffs.”

“Nah, apparently everyone loved how real he was,” Connor says. “Very motivating. Leon said it was hilarious to watch.”

“I bet,” Dylan says. He stuffs another bite of bacon in his mouth and chews. “This is really good, Davo.”

“Thanks,” Connor says, drily. “I picked up a few things over the years.”

“I’d be more worried if you hadn’t,” Dylan says. He laughs, his eyes crinkling up in the corners, his expression fond. It makes Connor’s chest tight, that Dylan can look at him that way, after all the time and distance.

“Hey,” he says, as if they weren’t just in the middle of a conversation, if that’s what catching up on acquaintances and discussing the food is. Dylan’s eyebrows go up, so Connor continues. “Did you ever date guys? After the thing with me?”

He’s wondered. He knows Dylan’s dated girls, maybe even seriously a couple of time, but if there were other guys, it’s nothing that Alex or Brownie or either of the Raddyshes mentioned. They probably wouldn’t even if they knew.

“Nothing serious,” Dylan says. “Hooked up a few times, that kind of thing. I had a guy for the offseason one year, but it was mostly easier not to.”

“You had the option, you mean,” Connor says. He’s not bitter about it. Girls weren’t an option for Connor, not if he was being an honest person, but they were for Dylan. Connor knows that if he’d come out he would’ve still been able to play hockey — the benefit of his level of talent — but he hadn’t wanted to. He hadn’t wanted another thing to keep him apart from everyone else. He made that choice, and he doesn’t regret it, even if there were some lonely years in the middle there.

“I was also just — still in love with you for a long time.” Dylan’s smile is rueful. He says it like it’s easy to admit, casual, when he only said it to Connor twice while they were together, both when they were drunk and happy. It’s not that Connor didn’t know, it’s more that Dylan has grown up, and Connor missed a lot of it.

“I know the feeling.” It’s the least Connor can do, admitting it out loud. “Some people are hard to get over.”

Connor can see Dylan struggling between laughing it off with a joke and being sincere, and he waits it out. He’s okay with putting off some of this conversation until later. He does know that they’re going to have to have it before he leaves.

“Some relationships are important,” Dylan says, eventually. “Even if they don’t last as long as you want them to.”

“Even if they hurt sometimes?” Connor asks. There were so many pain points between them — hockey things, distance things, jealousy and envy. Their successes were often in counterpoint to each other’s failures. There was plenty of hurt on both sides.

“Yeah, even then,” Dylan says. “C’mon, let's take a swim.”

Connor smiles and collects Dylan’s plate, letting him off the hook. 

They change, and Dylan hands Connor a beach towel to drape on one of the dock chairs — it’s patterned with flowers and pineapples, probably a gift. Connor lets Dylan go on ahead while he stretches his leg, getting his knee warmed up enough.

It’s been worse, an ache more than anything else, but the playoffs always take a toll. It’s easy enough to tape up, and it doesn’t slow him down much on the ice, but it would be nice to take a break from pain. The struggle is really in figuring out if he’s ready to close the door on hockey in exchange.

The water is cold and clear. Connor sits on the top rung of the ladder for a few moments, watching his feet move, the depths of the lake deep blue beneath the tips of his toes. Dylan is far enough ahead to be a small, dark mop of hair bobbing up at intervals, and Connor watches him, before pushing off the ladder and into the water.

The cold takes his breath away, a shock, and it’s hard not to feel cleansed in some way when he surfaces, breathing in the warm summer air. Somewhere further down the shore someone is probably in their boat, ready for a day of fishing, and the families in their cabins are waking up, getting started on their day, but Connor feels alone. He pulls his hands through the water, starting a slow breaststroke, and lets himself revel in that. He feels like the only person alive underneath this big, cloudless sky, the sound of the water lapping against the dock growing quieter as he puts distance between them.

He can see why Dylan would enjoy this. When they were kids they spent more time roughhousing, splashing or dunking or wrestling with each other. They’d tire each other out and wait for Dylan’s parents to say lunch was ready, tromping inside happy and dripping on the wood floors. This is something entirely different.

It’s meditative, almost, pushing himself through the water and thinking about nothing. He’s not a good enough swimmer to make it to the other side of the lake and back, so about halfway across he turns back. Dylan is still swimming, but Connor spots him just starting to come around. Connor will beat him back by a large margin.

He can feel it in his arms and thighs when makes it to the dock, that satisfying fatigue of good use, and he pulls himself up the ladder and onto the wooden slats, lying on his back with his legs hanging off the edge. His feet and ankles touch the water, keeping him connected to the lake. He closes his eyes. He drifts, not sleeping but letting his mind wander.

He’s not sure how long it has been when he hears Dylan’s feet on the ladder, feels the slight vibration of the dock underneath his shoulders. When he opens his eyes Dylan is rubbing a towel over his hair and frowning down at Connor. After a moment he sits cross legged next to Connor on the dock.

“What?” Connor asks.

“You got some sun,” Dylan says. He reaches out, brushing his fingers over Connor’s cheekbones. “I forgot how easily you burn, I should have mentioned sunscreen.”

“I didn’t ask,” Connor says, and misses Dylan’s touch when he pulls his hand away. “It’s fine.”

“I’ll remind you tomorrow,” Dylan says. “Are you just gonna lie there for awhile?”

“Thinking about it,” Connor says. “I'm very relaxed.”

“How’s your knee?” Dylan leans back on his palms, and Connor tries not to look at the way the water is trickling down his chest to his stomach. He’s still in great shape.

“Oh, fine. Like I said, it’s really not a big deal. I keep thinking, oh, only six weeks until I should start strength conditioning, and then I remember I’m not going back.”

“Maybe you should,” Dylan says. “One more year, you and Law.”

“Maybe,” Connor says. “You only invited me up here because I said I was done, though.”

“True,” Dylan says. He’s looking at Connor’s knee, like he thinks Connor’s lying about how bad it is, but he’s not. He’s not retiring because of his knee. He just thought it seemed like the time. A good excuse. Go out on a high note. He doesn’t want to read into Dylan’s expression, so he closes his eyes again. “I’m starting to think that was stubborn and stupid. Not to just be friends again.”

“I don’t know if I would have come otherwise,” Connor says. “It never really seemed safe to talk to you when hockey was still on the table.”

“Why? Because of how jealous I was of you? I’m not a teenager anymore.”

“Partially,” he says. “But also I don’t think we’ve ever succeeded at being entirely platonic. I don’t think it’s possible.”

“You didn’t want to tempt fate while you were still playing,” Dylan says, and Connor can tell he’s mad — annoyed, at least — because of how flat his voice is. He still doesn’t look.

“No, I just thought you wouldn't want to. You made it pretty clear, y’know, that it wasn’t an option. I didn’t want to hear you say no again.”

It shouldn’t matter anymore. They’re both adults, they’ve had entire careers just seeing each other across the ice, over dinner tables with shared friends, at charity golf tournaments. Connor’s never given himself the chance to love anyone the way he loved Dylan, and part of that was hockey but part of it was on purpose. He didn’t want to love anyone else like that. So of course it still matters.

“Well,” Dylan says, and Connor can’t read his tone. “Whatever else is going to happen, whatever you’re going to do, I still invited you here. It wasn’t a mistake.”

“Yeah,” Connor says, and opens his eyes. Dylan is looking at him with furrowed brows. “Lets go inside. I bet I’m gonna be red.”

“You already are. C’mon, old man.” Dylan holds out his hand, and Connor lets Dylan tug him up. The contact is good, and fleeting.

Connor should just ask Dylan what he wants. He knows he should, but he’s not going to yet. He wants to enjoy this a little longer, just in case.

Inside, they part ways to rinse off, and meet up back in the living room. Dylan is sitting on one of the couches, wearing glasses and reading a book on the history of Toronto. His bare toes are vulnerable, propped up on a pillow. Connor sits on one of the other couches and watches him for a while. It could seem creepy, but it doesn’t feel that way. It’s comfortable.

“You read now?” he asks, after ten minutes or so. Dylan smiles but doesn’t look up.

“Yeah, I read now. Got a problem with that?”

“No,” Connor says. “It’s cute, with your glasses. You could use a haircut, though.”

Dylan laughs, and puts the book facedown in his lap. “For a second I thought that was going to be an unreserved compliment. Spoke too soon.”

“Sorry,” Connor says. “Can’t let your ego get too big.”

Dylan rolls his eyes, but he’s still grinning, wide and fond. It’s not a look Connor has had directed at him specifically in a long time. The occasional joke at group gatherings doesn’t count.

“Ouch,” Dylan says. “Wounded.”

Connor wants to kiss him.

It’s not a surprise. It would be easier to say he’s never stopped wanting to kiss Dylan, though the truth is that for a long time he just didn’t think about it. There were other things to think about. Now he’s here, with the lake, and the sun, and Dylan smiling at him with his glasses perched on the end of his nose, and he _wants_.

“Let’s take that walk into town,” he says instead. “You can show me around.”

“Sure,” Dylan says, setting his glasses on top of his book on the couch. “I can show you the one hardware store which is also the grocery store, the ice cream shop, and the two restaurants. It’ll be grueling.”

Connor laughs, and watches Dylan cross to the table just by the door, rooting around in the bowl perched there until he pulls out a set of keys, his wallet. He stuffs his phone in his pocket.

“C’mon,” Dylan says. “Up and at ‘em.”

They walk up the driveway and around the side of the road. There’s no sidewalk, but there’s also not much car traffic. Most of the driveways are empty, too, as they walk past the other houses, around the edge of the lake.

“Is it still early in the season?” Connor asks.

Dylan shrugs. “More people will come up in the beginning of July, and it’ll be louder after that. I don’t mind it, though. Sometimes the families will grill and invite the neighborhood in, and that’s always fun. Lots of kids running around, being ridiculous.”

“Like we used to be, probably.”

“Yeah,” Dylan says, glancing Connor’s way. “Like we used to be.”

It’s about a mile and a half walk into the small cluster of buildings that makes up the main town. There’s basically one street which runs for several blocks, and then peters out again into nothing. They stop in the ice cream shop and get cones — vanilla for Connor, chocolate for Dylan, sprinkles for both of them — and Dylan points out the town hall and attached garden, the church where, on the weekends, the farmer’s market is set up, the ancient video rental shop, which is miraculously still in business.

“Quaint,” Connor says. “I like it.”

“Me too,” Dylan says. “The fish market is open on weekdays, and that’s always a good place to get fresh seafood. They have a counter where you can order fried oysters and shrimp and stuff, if you’re feeling peckish.”

“Fried seafood after ice cream? What have you done with Dylan Strome?”

“I’m retired, remember? There are benefits.”

Connor laughs, and lets Dylan lead him around back, where they can sit at one of the picnic tables in the cleared out lawn behind the store, and order from the window. They share a basket of fried oysters and fries, and it’s hard not to watch Dylan lick the grease off of his fingers. Dylan is chatty again, like he’s worried about awkward silence, but Connor doesn’t mind listening. He talks about how he’s been spending the offseason so far, how he’s planning on taking up woodworking — or maybe ceramics — in the fall, because he wants to work with his hands. He’s thinking about staying at the lake house during the winter this year, converting one of the bedrooms, or maybe the top floor, into a studio.

“I miss hockey, you know,” Dylan says. “I especially missed it a ton my first year after retiring, but it’s nice to do what I want on my own schedule. I have time to try out the things I’ve been idly thinking about for years.”

“If you get really bored I’m sure you could find a beer league,” Connor says.

“Maybe then I’ll know what it feels like to be you,” Dylan says. “Mr. Five-Time Art Ross Winner.”

“Would’ve been six if it wasn’t for that concussion.” 

“Y’know, I almost called you when that happened?” Dylan says, chewing contemplatively on a fry.

“Really?”

“Yeah, a couple times. You were out for so long. It was hard not to worry, and I could only badger Alex or Burky about you so many times.”

“Huh,” Connor says. That year had sucked. He’d been out for almost four months, and it was worse than the collarbone because there was no way to predict how long the recovery would take. He’d hated every moment of it.

“I chickened out, obviously.”

“Probably for the best,” Connor says. “I wasn’t in the best, uh, mood at the time.”

Dylan laughs. “Yeah, Alex told me how you chewed him out. You should have seen my face.”

“I appreciate it now, though. That you wanted to.” It’s nice to know that Dylan thought about him. When he smiles at Dylan, Dylan smiles back and then looks away. Connor’s chest is tight, but he doesn’t mind.

“Want to head back? I could use a nap, I think.”

“Said like a real hockey player.” Connor laughs. “Sure, I’m ready.”

The walk back is pleasant, if somewhat charged. Connor doesn’t think he’s making it up, the tension running between them. He imagines reaching out and grabbing Dylan’s hand, holding on, wonders if Dylan would let him link their fingers together. He doesn’t do it.

When they get back, Connor heads to his room, leaving Dylan to his, and closes the door quietly, before lying back on the bed and pushing his shorts and underwear down over his hips. He jerks off fast and intent, thinking about Dylan’s mouth, pressing Dylan down onto the couch and kissing him until he’s desperate and squirming, arching up into Connor’s body. It doesn’t take Connor long to come, wiping his hand off on a tissue from the bedside table, lobbing it at the trash can, and then quickly falling asleep.

He’s groggy when he wakes up. It can’t have been more than an hour but it feels like longer. He yawns, stumbles to the bathroom to splash water on his face, and scrubs a hand through his hair, trying to get it back into some semblance of order. He heads into the living room, but Dylan still seems to be asleep — his door is closed, and there’s no visible light underneath the door.

The sun is glinting off of the lake, a trail of light too brilliant to look at. It’s not even dinnertime, but it feels later, the long summer days sprawling out ahead of him. Connor fishes his phone out of his backpack and turns it on. He snaps a photo of the scenery to send to Cam and his parents, and then sighs, finally resigning himself to checking his messages.

He had plenty of texts but only three that he should consider replying to — two are from Alex, trying to get some details about how things are going with Dylan, like the nosy guy he is, and the last is from Nuge, reminding him about the charity horse thing they were trying to set up for August. There are two emails from his agent, the first of which is a reminder that the Oilers have offered him one more year, and that he needs Connor’s permission to turn it down. The second is an addendum, saying that the Avalanche, Hurricanes, and Senators have all reached out independently to ask if he could be convinced to sign for another year. The email ends with, _Take your time deciding, but not too much. There’s always an expiration date._

“You’re frowning,” Dylan says. He’s coming down the stairs. Connor hadn’t heard his door open.

“I have offers,” Connor says. He doesn’t know what his expression looks like, but it makes Dylan raise his eyebrows.

“Is that not good? You have options if you want to go back, and it seemed like you weren’t entirely sure.”

“I’d rather not have options,” Connor says, and sighs. “It’s going to be hard to say no.”

“Well, what do you want?” Dylan asks. He sits gingerly next to Connor on the couch.

Connor shrugs. “To be happy, mostly. Hockey makes me happy, but it’s lonely, too. Most of my friends and teammates are married, have kids. I’m tired of being alone.” That’s the crux of it, really. Connor wants hockey, but it’s not enough anymore. He wants someone to go home to. He wants to be able to idly talk about having kids, and where they should spend the offseason together.

He’s always imagined Dylan as that person, has never been able to stop himself, and he couldn’t have Dylan and hockey at the same time.

“Did you even try?” Dylan asks. “I know what I said —”

“Sure I tried,” Connor says. He puts on a small smile, the crooked one the media sees all the time. “That wasn’t really the problem.” Being closeted was the problem. No one wants to be a secret for that long, not really. Eventually, Connor gave up.

Dylan huffs out a sigh. “I know it’s not the same,” he says. “But you’re always welcome here. If you play another year, one last hurrah or whatever, you’re still welcome. All-star break, offseason, whenever.”

“How can you say that so easily? It’s been ten years since we were alone together for longer than fifteen minutes. Maybe you’ll hate me at the end of this.”

“I promise you, I won’t.” Dylan’s face is so serious, his eyes dark, and Connor is burning up inside. It’s painful, but it’s sweet at the same time.

“What changed?” Connor asks. “Why are you suddenly just — okay with me and hockey at the same time? I thought that was the line for you.”

Dylan shrugs, though there’s nothing casual about it. “I told myself at the time that I needed more, someone who could be _around_ , more than I needed to be with you. I don’t think I was wrong then, but we’re grown up now. We have been grown up for awhile. I guess I think we can handle each other now. I don’t really want to wait anymore.”

It’s a lot to hear. They fought so much that second year Dylan got sent back to Erie. Connor accused Dylan of being jealous, and Dylan claimed Connor was distant, distracted. Trying to stay in touch was just a date to an argument. They piled hurtful words on top of each other, and at some point Dylan decided he’d had enough. Connor can’t blame him for that, even if he had at the time.

They’d grown apart after that, more or less — they saw each other a few times during the offseason, but it hurt, and it was awkward. Chaperoned parties were okay, group dinners after Dylan finally got traded and the Oilers were in the process of setting themselves on fire. They didn’t talk about hockey. They didn’t talk about anything important.

Now, Dylan is looking at Connor, jaw tense like he knows everything Connor is thinking, and maybe he does. That doesn’t seem like such a bad thing.

“Dylan,” Connor says, and waits for Dylan to meet his eyes. Connor’s hands are balled up tight in his lap. His breath shakes when he exhales. “Dylan, can I kiss you?”

Dylan nods.

Connor’s hands find Dylan’s face, cupping his cheeks, and Connor leans in. Dylan’s mouth is soft, as serious as his expression, but when Connor gains confidence he opens up, lets Connor deepen the kiss. It’s familiar and new at the same time, shades of the teenagers they were, overlaid with all the time they spent apart. Connor can’t get enough of it.

Dylan’s fingers wrap loosely around Connor’s wrists, just holding on, and Connor can feel how hot Dylan’s skin is underneath his palms. Connor has thought about the all the ways this might happen, years and years of idle fantasies, but none of them are anything close to this moment — the way Dylan’s eyes fall closed, the way he scrapes his teeth over Connor’s lower lip, the way he lets Connor lick into his mouth. The way he wants it, just the same way Connor does.

Finally, Connor pulls back. He’s breathing too quickly — they both are. He doesn’t drop his hands, but he does look at Dylan’s expression. There’s wonder there, awe, but wariness, too, like Connor hasn’t convinced him enough. It makes Connor want to kiss him again, even though he thinks that it won’t help.

He clears his throat. “I — god, I’ve been thinking about doing that all day.”

“Just today?” Dylan asks. His voice is hoarse, but there’s a trace of a smile there too.

“Especially today, but no, not just.” Connor shakes his head.

“On the dock this morning,” Dylan says. “I was thinking about it.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d want to. Still want to.”

Dylan shakes his head. His expression is exasperated, fond. “Then you’re a goddamned idiot, Connor McDavid. Or course I still want to.”

 _And if I want to play another year?_ Connor thinks, but doesn’t say. Instead he kisses Dylan again, hard and firm.

It’s easy to get lost in. Dylan doesn’t pull away, and he doesn’t hold back. It’s all Connor can do to snatch breaths between kisses, Dylan’s hands sliding underneath his t-shirt to press against his stomach, his ribs. Connor presses Dylan down into the couch cushions and thinks about his fantasy earlier, how much better the real thing is. He missed this. He missed Dylan so much and for so long that he could almost forget the ache, but here, with Dylan’s mouth insistent against his, Dylan’s hair tickling his cheek, Dylan’s thighs parting to let Connor in closer, it bubbles up to the surface again. His breath catches in his throat, and he pulls away, pushes his face against Dylan’s neck.

They could do easily keep going, rub against each other on the couch like teenagers until one of them gathers the coordination to push their shorts out of the way, and half of Connor wants that. The rest of him wants to make sure this is real. He wants to know something, anything, for certain.

“What?” Dylan whispers, mouth tucked close to Connor’s ear. “What’s wrong?”

“If we do this, what then?” Connor asks. He can feel Dylan go taut beneath him, his fingers freezing on Connor’s back, underneath his t-shirt.

“Whatever you want,” Dylan says. His voice is so careful. “I don’t have any expectations.”

“You had to have thought something, inviting me here.” Connor’s breath shudders when Dylan’s mouth skates over his cheek.

“I hoped — I hoped we could be friends, and that maybe, someday, you’d want me again.” Dylan laughs, a soft huff. “You were right when you said we’ve never been particularly platonic.”

“I don’t want to have sex if that’s all it is,” Connor says. “I need it to mean something.”

“It does,” Dylan says. “Of course it does. I never stopped being in love with you.”

“Dylan,” Connor says, voice hoarse, but can’t manage anything else.

Dylan sighs, and Connor can feel it against his face. They’re pressed so tightly together. “We might still be awful at this. It might not work. But don’t you want to find out?”

“Yeah,” Connor says. “Why do you think I came here?”

Dylan kisses him again, mouth hungry, and then says, “Upstairs.”

Connor lets Dylan push him up, grab his hand, drag him up the stairs to the master bedroom. Connor hasn’t been inside, just seen the bed through the doorway, but it’s huge and sprawling, with a jacuzzi and attached bathroom, and an enormous bed pressed close to the windows. The shades are up, the sun beaming in through the windows, and Connor doesn’t care if anyone sees. He lets Dylan push him onto the comforter, hands pressing up underneath his shirt to help him get it over his head.

“C’mon,” Dylan says. “I know you’re good at this.”

“It’s been awhile,” Connor says, meaning both since they did this and since the last time he had sex at all.

“It’ll be fine,” Dylan says, mouthing over Connor’s collarbone. “Like riding a bicycle.”

“I’m not great at that either,” Connor says, and then laughs when Dylan bites into his chest, chastising.

Dylan trails his mouth over Connor’s skin, scraping teeth and soft kisses, and if Connor hadn’t already been hard the _care_ of Dylan’s touch would have gotten him there fast. He whines when Dylan licks over his nipple, and then surges up, flipping them over.

It surprises a laugh out of Dylan as he goes sprawling, a jumble of long limbs. Connor presses him down into the soft bedspread and looks at him, the flush spreading down to the base of his neck, his half-lidded eyes and wide smile, his messy hair. Dylan used to prod Connor into action, whining, wheedling, getting him riled up. He used to cling, sometimes, when he thought Connor might slip away in the night to head back to his own billet family. He wanted so much, and at some point Connor didn’t give him enough.

“What’re you thinking about?” Dylan asks. He licks his lips, pink mouth opening on a startled breath when Connor pushes his shirt up to his armpits.

“Us,” Connor says, sliding his fingers over Dylan’s stomach, and popping the button on his shorts. “How we used to be, before. Forever ago.”

“It was good for awhile,” Dylan says, and then gasps when Connor pushes his shorts and underwear out of way, as far down Dylan’s hips as he can get them. Dylan’s dick is mostly hard, flushed, and Connor licks his palm before he wraps his fingers loosely around it. “Fuck, Connor.”

“Just let me,” Connor says, watching the blush spread to Dylan’s chest, his thighs taut as he tries not to push up into Connor’s hand. Connor wants to see him come, wants to keep him here, like this, spread out on his bed, until he whines and groans and spills all over himself. He keeps his touch light, teasing, and leans down to lick a stripe down the center of Dylan’s chest, close enough to hear Dylan’s shocky breath.

“Do you think about it a lot? Us?” Dylan asks. His fingers wind into the bedspread and pull. When Connor tightens his fingers, swiping his thumb over the slit, gathering precome and smearing it, Dylan arches, head thrown back against the mattress, exposing the pale column of his throat. Connor can’t help leaning into to bite, sinking his teeth in and sucking hard.

“I don’t usually let myself,” he says, pulling back to rub his nose over the mark. “Sometimes, when I was very lonely, I’d think about that weekend your parents went away with your brothers and we fucked on every flat surface in your parents’ house.” It’s not a bad memory, but Connor liked to torture himself with how good things had been, and how bad they got. Now, with Dylan’s hips thrusting up, Connor’s hand slick and warm wrapped around Dylan’s dick, it all feels almost okay. Necessary, maybe.

“Fuck,” Dylan says. “I loved you so much then.”

“Yeah, me too,” Connor says, moving his mouth over Dylan’s chest to scrape teeth over his nipple, hand tightening on Dylan’s dick when he moans, a stupid little _ah, ah_ sound that Connor finds so hot.

“Please, Connor,” Dylan whines, the muscles in his stomach and thighs tensing and relaxing as he pushes, pushes into Connor’s hand. “I thought — I never thought —”

“I’ve got you,” Connor says, and he leans in enough to catch Dylan’s mouth, kiss him for real while he speeds up his hand. Dylan’s too wrung out to be much of an active participant, but he opens up for Connor’s tongue, and brings one hand up to curl into the hair at the back of Connor’s head. When he comes Connor can feel it ripple through him, like it’s a wave cresting from his curling toes to his fluttering eyelashes. The pulses hit Connor’s hand, his stomach, Dylan’s stomach, spreading between them when Connor kisses Dylan deeper and more insistent. It’s perfect. Dylan is perfect.

Dylan’s gasping for breath when Connor pulls away, looking down at him. He’s red all over, splotchy and wonderful, his clothes still half on, his eyes closed. He looks happy. When he opens his eyes he looks happy to see Connor too.

“Oh, that was —” He cuts himself off to shake his head, laughing, and then his hands are scrabbling with the ties on Connor’s board shorts, trying to get them out of the way. 

Connor is a mess, but so is Dylan. He bats Dylan’s hands out of the way and pushes his shorts down his thighs, wrapping his sticky hand around his dick. He looks down at Dylan, still spread out for him, and knows that it won’t take much. He’s been on edge long enough.

“That’s my come,” Dylan says, poleaxed, and shudders, watching Connor get himself off.

“Did you think about us?” Connor asks, like they hadn’t gotten distracted. 

“More as I got older,” Dylan says. “I thought about how young and stupid we were. We thought we could do anything.”

“We learned,” Connor says. He’s breathing hard, watching Dylan lick his lips, watching Dylan’s eyes track over his body, his dick. His gaze is heavy, egging Connor on, and Connor just wants to mess Dylan up. Say, _I was here_ , in sweat and come.

“I missed you,” Dylan says, like it’s his confession and not the same feeling Connor kept tucked alongside his heart every day, every month, every year. “Please, Connor.”

Connor wraps his free hand around Dylan’s ankle, and twists the hand on his dick, his touch fast and brutal until he’s coming in stripes on Dylan’s stomach and chest. He would take a picture if he could, a reminder that they still fit together like this.

Instead, Connor tips forward, aligning them from head to hips, and kisses Dylan. Dylan is eager, hungry, and Connor lets himself get lost in it, for real this time. It’s safe to. Connor thinks back to two months ago, when he was in the midst of a desperate playoff push, and how he never would have entertained the fantasy of this. There was no way Dylan could still want him, but here are Dylan’s fingers winding into Connor hair and pulling, here is the sound of Dylan laughing when Connor touches his ribs. Here are the two of them.

Eventually, Connor pulls off Dylan’s clothes and shucks his shorts, wandering naked into the bathroom to get a washcloth to wipe them both down. It’s easy enough to leave the washcloth on the edge of jacuzzi for later and slide into bed next to Dylan. Dylan doesn’t hesitate before curling around around him, tucking them close together. It’s familiar, the way Dylan wants to be touching him, but different, too. Dylan isn’t worried about him leaving.

Not yet, anyway.

“What if I do go back to play another year?” Connor asks, half afraid and half sure he already knows the answer. “What if I can’t say no?”

“I’m gonna be here,” Dylan says. “If you want to — if we decide to be together, I can come visit, or you can come here during breaks. Or both, even. I don’t know, we’re both rich. We can play it by ear.”

“You’d do that?”

“Yeah, Davo, I’d do that.” Dylan smiles, and Connor can see the red mark on his neck that will deepen into a bruise over the next hour or so, and he thinks about Dylan going out on a limb, asking him out here, knowing that anything could happen. Connor could have said no. Dylan is so brave.

“If I go back, I’m gonna come out,” Connor says. “To the team, at least. Maybe the league. Even if I do keep playing, I’m done pretending.”

“Are you sure?” Dylan asks. His voice is carefully even, like he doesn’t want to influence Connor one way or the other.

“I’m sure,” Connor says. “Even if — anything could happen. I want you to be there, but even if we can’t, uh. Even if this doesn’t work out, I’m tired of lying by omission. I want more.”

Dylan rolls in closer, kisses Connor’s cheek and chin and mouth. “Wow, Connor McDavid, you’ve really grown up.”

“Took me long enough,” Connor says, and gets his hands on Dylan’s face, the curve of his waist, and kisses him again. The sun is sliding down in the cloudless sky, deep gold and burnt orange, just nudging the top of the mountains and it inches closer to the horizon. Connor can’t think of a single place he’d rather be. Not one.

 

**Epilogue:**

Connor’s almost to the lake house when he gets the text from Dylan: _i saw the picture u posted u sneak ❤️_

Connor slows down so that he can text back, saying, _stop stalking my social media_ , and then, _i’ll see you in four minutes_.

Dylan sends back a line of hearts, enough to really get his point across, and Connor feels the tension in his chest start to ease. They talk all the time, but Connor hasn’t touched Dylan in two months. It’s too long, and he’s too good at being his own worst enemy.

When he pulls down the driveway to Dylan’s house and parks, Dylan is standing outside in shorts and bare feet, hair too long and starting to fluff up. Connor can’t stop looking at him.

“Is this our new anniversary?”

“I don’t know, did you want to keep the old one?” Connor says.

“Not especially,” Dylan says, and then, “Hi.”

“Hi,” Connor says, and leans in to kiss him. It’s exactly what he needs, the long drive melting off of his shoulders. This isn’t home, but Dylan is. He never thought he’d be allowed to think something like that, but here he is. A year in, and Dylan hasn’t left again. Connor hasn’t made him leave.

“Are you coming inside?” Dylan asks, cheeky, and then laughs at Connor’s expression. “C’mon, get your stuff, I made dinner.”

“I missed you.” It spills out of Connor’s mouth, helpless, but he can’t regret it when he sees the way Dylan looks at him. Like he’s precious, and dumb, and loved.

“I missed you too,” Dylan says. “Come inside.”

Connor goes.


End file.
